


Ten Things (Feyrian Didn't Remember When He Died)

by bobbiesquares



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8618155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiesquares/pseuds/bobbiesquares
Summary: A self-indulgent overview of my Warden's (Feyrian Mahariel) backstory up to and including the start of Dragon Age: Origins. Written in the style indicated in the title: ten memories from formative or important parts in his history. Includes oblique references to rather violent deaths; warning for lots of mentions of blood.





	

I.  
Feyrian did not remember the first time he had lured a fox close enough to touch. He did not remember the feel of pine needles underneath his bare feet as he crouched, still and low to the ground; the quiet of the forest, the sunlight falling in dappled patterns on his outstretched hand and the berries cradled within it. He did not remember the fox, bright-eyed, as it stared at him. It had orange-red fur, bright under the golden sun, and it when it curled its lips to snarl at him, its teeth were perfectly white and pointed. He did not remember being bitten for his trouble, or how he could hardly feel the pain through the glow of satisfaction.

II.  
Feyrian did not remember sitting around the campfire, listening to the familiar timbre of Hahren Paivel’s voice as he recited the tale of Dirthamen and Falon’Din. At the time, Feyrian had mouthed along to the story—he could follow all of them, had memorized all the stories the hahren told long before he left the clan: “Long ago, before the days of Elvhenan…” But now, he did not remember a single word.

III.  
Feyrian did not remember the whistle of the arrow flying through the air, the surprised look on his father’s face as he fell. He did not remember the terror on his mother’s face as she wrapped him in her arms. He didn’t remember the unexpected weight of her body and the sudden warmth and coppery scent of blood, didn’t remember the loud voices of the bandits, the rough way they grabbed him and tied him up. He didn’t remember how the mud, mixed with blood, squished between his toes, how it stuck to him long after the bandits had taken him away. He didn’t remember the way his parents’ bodies splayed on the road, his mother’s hair a red-gold spray about her head. He didn’t remember the silence of the forest on either side.

IV.  
Feyrian did not remember his first time in Denerim, how the cobblestones scraped his bare and bloody soles, the noise of thousands of people crammed into a maze of narrow stone-and-wood canyons. He didn’t remember the overpowering stench of middens and nightsoil and sweat and urine and blood, how he had thrown up what little was in his stomach. It had only added to the strange mix of puddles in the street.

V.  
Feyrian didn’t even remember his first love, Kallian—her smile, her laugh, her breath on his face as she leaned in close to whisper to him. The way she moved, graceful and deadly. The way she said his name: “Feyrian,” she said, like it was something precious. The way she touched his hair: “Like fire,” she said, “like you.” The way she taught him to hold a knife, her hand resting on his: “Sure but gentle,” she said. “Like it’s a part of you.” She was the most beautiful person Feyrian had ever known, the person he had loved most, and yet now she was gone and he did not remember.

VI.  
Feyrian did not remember heady rush of adrenaline as he watched the light drain out of the man’s eyes and realized that he was dead, that he had killed him. He did not remember how his hand shook, sending drops of blood flying from the knife. How red the blood was, and how much of it, red and wet and spilling everywhere. Feyrian did not remember the smell of the blood, coppery and cloying, how it clogged his nose and sent him reeling back, out through the window through which he came. He did not remember when he became used to it, either, when it started becoming just another scent, another part of his life.

VII.  
He didn’t remember how alien the forest had felt when he finally returned, how the quiet seemed to press in on his ears, how he could no longer recognize birds by their call. His soles had been so roughened by years of cobblestones and rooftops that he could no longer feel the individual pine needles under his feet, but the spicy smell they released with every step was fresh and new. He didn’t remember how the stories of his childhood had come back to him, under the trees, and how he haltingly began to recite them, with the birds and beasts of the forest as his audience. “Long ago,” he murmured, “before the days of Elvhenan…”

VIII.  
Feyrian didn’t remember the pain as the vallaslin seared his skin, hundreds of pinpricks banding together into a great field of fire across his face. He didn’t remember the taste of blood in his mouth, salt and copper, so different when it was his own. Later, when he told the story, he said that he had bitten his tongue in half and the healer had to sew it back together—but he didn’t remember the story, either.

IX.  
Feyrian did not remember the cave, with the ruins inside. He did not remember the strange, tall, mirror, the eluvian, and the shadows that writhed just beyond its surface. He did not remember Tamlen saying, “Just a look!”, did not remember Tamlen touching the glass, did not remember Tamlen screaming, did not remember the darkness that surged from the mirror to engulf his sight. Did not remember waking up back at the camp with whispers scratching at his thoughts, blackness lapping at the shores of his mind.

X.  
Feyrian did not remember the Battle of Ostagar—the thousands of torches against the black night, the wave of darkness that swept over them. He did not remember being exhausted and injured, ribs broken, companions dead or unconscious, burning his hand in the fire to light a signal for reinforcements that never came. He did not remember thinking, as the darkspawn arrow pierced his chest, _So this is how my story ends._

XI.  
He did not know this was only how his story began.


End file.
